


Kissing Bug

by mgtmnk



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: All referenced/described child abuse is canonical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, Drabble Collection, Emetophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, No Incest, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Vincent POV, and all that implies, not ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mgtmnk/pseuds/mgtmnk
Summary: "Kissing bug" is the common name for triatominae, a family of blood drinking insects. They're known mostly for spreading Chagas disease, a parasitic illness which remains asymptomatic in about 60% of cases and causes complications including sudden cardiac death in the remainder.Collection of Vincent oneshots -_-Chapter 1 - Vince & Gil, 992 wordsChapter 2 - Vince & Gil, 1758 wordsChapter 3 - Vince & Jack/Alice, 2568 wordsChapter 4 - Just Vincent. 1285 words
Relationships: Alyss | Intention of the Abyss & Vincent Nightray, Gilbert Nightray & Vincent Nightray, Vincent Nightray & Jack Vessalius
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent tends to his brother's wounds. 992 words
> 
> A love affair, or something, where every side is in the wrong. Who cares.

His brother’s blood is on his hands. Not his fault, of course. It wasn’t his fault that Gil had taken that fall while pursuing their target. Even if endurance was Gil’s strong suit, even if Vincent hadn’t known him to trip as Gil had since they were children, it couldn’t be said that it was Vincent’s fault. He had just happened to be there, running a little behind him through the dark of the forest. No harm was meant by it. Vincent had done nothing wrong.  
There’s no time to waste, Gil reminds him. Vincent needs to stop staring into space, he always looks so weird when he does that. It’s not like they hadn’t seen blood before, and it’s just a flesh wound, Vincent is being so anal making a stop when their target’s getting away. Gil is right, of course, Vincent knows he’s being overly fussy, says as such as he apologizes. Privately, he couldn’t care less whether the target escaped or not. It wasn’t an illegal contractor this time, just a paid hit, and the affair this particular mark had been involved in held no interest to Vincent. A love affair, or something, where every side is in the wrong. Who cares.  
Gil would get mad at him if he said that, so he considers saying it, then decides it wouldn’t be funny enough to justify the lecture. Much more interesting is how Gil turns his face away from him as Vincent takes off his gloves, presses them against his brother’s wound to staunch the blood. He can almost see his brother’s pulse like this, watching the white fabric stain red, bright even in the darkness of night. He wants to put his fingers inside.  
A better bandage will have to be improvised. With some negotiation Vincent convinces Gil to sacrifice the hem of his shirt— Vincent’s own won’t do, he claims, the thread is all wrong, it would just tear apart his poor elder brother’s already damaged skin. Scrape it red, agitate the wound, make it consume his entire forearm. He’d be shaking and feverish in a week’s time. Only Vincent would be there to take care of him, he reminds him. That gets Gil to relent, brushing Vincent’s hands away to clutch the wound himself.  
Rare is the occasion where Vincent can get this close to him. When they were teenagers it was different, Vincent barely allowing his elder brother out of his sight. As they got older the unspoken rule became a foot between them, then five. Nowadays Gil avoids standing on the same side of the room as him. For the sake of his brother’s dignity Vincent doesn’t touch his legs, even as he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls.

If Vincent were better he wouldn’t think about it. Only bad people want the things he wants, he knows that. The revulsion is inborn in him as well, even as his heart speeds up with the glimpse of his brother’s bare stomach. Does Gil know? He must, even though he’d never say it. Vincent wants him to know. He wants to see the disgust which creeps into his brother’s expression every time he catches him looking at him. He wants to feel Gil slap his hand away when he brushes it against his shoulder. Those are the only times they get close at this age— when Gil is mad, wants to punish him. It feels good.  
_It feels good, it feels_ good— over and over in his mind, repeating, deliberate. It feels good to be thrown to the floor, against a wall, grabbed by the neck and yelled at. His brother is so wonderful then, when he’s cruel to him, like a fire he’s trapped with. _It feels good._ He can conjure the image of his brother’s rage so easily, the way his face twists, the way his fingers feel as they choke him. To imagine it going further is no trouble at all. His heart pounds in his ears as he shuts his eyes, envisioning it— nails at either side of his neck, pressing harder, only a little harder than they had before. Suddenly he’s bleeding. The pressure doesn’t ease. Instead the life goes out of him, slowly, the claws at his throat not relenting enough to let it all out easily. _It feels good_.

Short work is made of dressing the wound once Vincent’s ripped enough fabric from his brother’s shirt. Once he’s confident the bandage won’t come undone, he takes a step back, allows Gil to stand up on his own. His brother is very particular about pulling down his coat sleeve— he tugs it around his wrist a little more than necessary, as though he’s afraid the clothing will remove itself on its own. Gil says he’s ready when Vincent is. Vincent says that’s fine, the two of them should head out.  
Neither of them comment on the intimacy of the ritual. Vincent hadn’t gotten to dig his fingers into his brother’s wound, even if he had wanted to. Maybe another day he’ll get to try again, catch Gil in a different moment of vulnerability. Then he might be able to shove his way inside, bury himself like an insect burrowing into flesh. He’ll be the parasite again, only this time hidden, not burdened by a sympathetic appearance. With any amount of luck Gil’s body will destroy him.  
Stars tell of how long they have until daybreak— another five hours or so, by Vincent’s calculation. It’s pitch black, the woods they’re navigating rugged and dense. Focused on pursuing the one ahead of him, it wasn’t that strange that Gil would trip. It wasn’t Vincent’s fault. Gil wasn’t even looking at him, definitely. So it couldn’t be Vincent’s fault. What could Vincent even have done that would make him fall? He was behind him the entire time. Vincent couldn’t be blamed. It wasn’t his fault.  
(He thinks it’s his fault.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vincent's point of view is pretty hard for me to write, to be honest, though I relate to him much more out of the two. When writing, it's much easier for me to work with a perspective character who is open and direct about their emotions. Someone like Vincent whose character is built on manipulation and deception is more difficult.
> 
> Edit for the morning after just to clarify my intent:  
> First, I don't think Gil is abusive. That's a really harsh oversimplification of a complicated situation. The things Vincent narrates Gil as having done are all things Gil has done in canon. To be clear, I don't think Gil genuinely wanted to hurt Vincent during any of that. He still did it, though.  
> Second, regarding Vincent's feelings for Gil... I think claiming they're "purely familial" is wrong. That's hardly controversial. Several characters (and Mochizuki) refer to Vincent as ブラコン (in specifically romantic/sexual contexts!) in extracanonical material. I'd hardly say Vincent's behavior in the main manga is appropriate for siblings either (talking like that about your sibling /during sex/ is...) It is explicitly canon that Vincent would never do that to Gil, though. It's most prominent in Lucky Day, where he has a panic attack over Gil touching him. The main manga characterized him as repulsed by Gil's affection as well ("You denied everything I'd been up to that point!") There's so much I could say about this topic in particular. I guess the shortest way to put it is that I think Vincent wants Gil like a monk wants self immolation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent is alright with being used. 1758 words
> 
> Secondhand smoke makes Vincent’s head hurt. It’s Gil, though, so it’s alright.
> 
> Mental illness acknowledged and then handled less than fantastically by characters involved.

There’s rarely a day where Vincent’s elder brother doesn’t seem to be in some kind of bad mood. Gil can always be lightened up, of course— one could never claim he didn’t experience the full range of human emotion. He’s just the sort to be pursued by darkness, if Vincent deigned to be poetic. For as long as he could remember Gil had been followed by some sort of cloud, out to rain on his parade the moment lasting happiness seemed in sight.  
When they were children it might have been a little different, maybe— Gil had been angrier then, he thinks, then contradicts himself. Not angrier, more ineffectual. When you’re a child every battle seems equally worthy, so Gil would waste his energy screaming at other children, flailing against adults. Nowadays Gil is quieter, a bit more disciplined. He’s still just as angry. A little push and it’s easy to make him fly off the handle, go back to attacking an enemy Gil can’t identify or understand.  
Vincent doesn’t want to do that, though, at least not today. Today Gil has a particularly ill demeanor. He’s making an effort to avoid Vincent, though that’s hardly unusual. What’s unusual is the help giving him a good six feet of social distance as they pass, despite their usual friendliness with him. Gil likes to run away when he’s upset, Vincent knows that. He retreats into himself and doesn’t come out. It’s obvious that’s what he’s doing now, from the narrowed eyes to the balled fists to the sort of stiff, almost scared way of walking he’s adopted.  
In a corner, watching his brother intensely, Vincent thinks he’s shaking. He doesn’t know if he actually is, at least enough for anyone else to see. Bile is making its way through his body, his blood is on fire, his bodily fluids have gained a life of their own and are trying to claw their way out. There’s a doll in his hands. He cuts it open. There’s a brief moment of clarity, just enough to watch Gil disappear into his room. Then the feeling’s back again.  
Gil. Ah, Gil, beautiful as ever in his volatile depression. Vincent suspects he has other obligations but can’t remember them suddenly. Gil looks so sad today. Slowly, Vincent stands. Who did this? He cuts the doll again. There has to have been someone. Gil… Vincent’s going to kill them, definitely, he’s going to. His stomach churns. Intestines have become snakes, probably, made his guts into some kind of colony. Any moment now their children are going to eat their way out. _Gil._  
Years of observing him have their advantages, though. The nuances of Gil’s soul and flesh have not escaped Vincent. He could track them down, manipulate them any which way he liked with very little preparation. Which means Vincent can fix this. It won’t even be hard. The same thing has driven his elder brother for as long as Vincent could remember, the same thing that made Gil unable to leave him completely. Prey on that, and Gil would have relief, even if it was sort of hollow. He discards the doll, puts his scissors away.  
As soon as Vincent enters Gil’s room, he’s yelled at. Vincent never knocks, which always freaks Gil out, which is why Vincent has decided never to announce his presence before entering a room Gil is in again in his life. He’s never caught him doing something indecent and wouldn’t care if he did. What matters to him is the way that Gil shrieks at him, tries to cover up even though he’s fully clothed, indignant and writhing no matter how many times Vincent does it. Shameless warmth fills his chest everytime he sees it, and Vincent’s yet to think of a reason he shouldn’t allow himself the pleasure.  
It doesn’t show on his face, though. That’s not what he wants. Gil is leaning on the wall opposite the door, next to a window with the curtains drawn. He’s still in his day clothes, though he’s taken his coat off. He’d been brooding, definitely. “Brother,” Vincent mutters, eyes turned downwards, pose akin to that of a wounded animal. “Would brother… let me lay with him?”  
For a moment Gil stares at him, puzzled. Trying to discern Vincent’s intent, no doubt. “... You’re an adult. You have your own bed. Lie there.”  
“That’s—” Vincent cuts himself off, feigning doubt. Tight fists grasp the front of his skirt, a subtle show of his instability. “I’m sorry… I just… I won’t be able to sleep tonight, I think.”  
_Why?_ Vincent sees Gil begin to mouth, then stop. “I was going to smoke,” he sighs.  
“I can—”  
“You’ll find a way to make me regret it later if I don’t,” Gil relents, standing up properly then walking to sit on the bed. He takes his boots off. “I’m not _that_ stupid.”  
Vincent doesn’t smile, not yet, but he moves with as much reservation as possible to Gil’s bed. He’d already taken his shoes off, as soon as he’d entered, actually. Gil granting him permission was a given. “Thank you…” he mumbles as he sits on the side of the bed facing the door.  
Weight shifts from one part of the bed to another— Gil has laid down, pulled the covers over himself and closed his eyes with an arm thrown across the bed. “I’m kicking you out if you—” he starts, then screws his face up, thinking better of it.  
“If I?” Vincent asks in return as he lays down, rests his head on the pillow beneath Gil’s outstretched arm. He knows the end of Gil’s question, obviously. It’s no surprise when Gil doesn’t answer. “Best not to acknowledge that,” Vincent whispers, and Gil pretends not to hear him.  
Though Vincent’s original position had left a modest foot of space between his brother’s chest and his own— it was a large bed— within a few minutes Vincent had pressed his forehead to Gil’s collarbone, his own body curved into a ball beside him. That’s one thing that has changed since they were children— Gil smells different now. Though his brother is clean, he’s uninclined towards any grooming beyond what he deems necessary, so no colognes. Instead he just smells like himself, which Vincent doesn’t bother trying to place. Metaphor isn’t Vincent’s strong suit, and besides that, it seemed inappropriate to attribute it to anything other than Gil. He doesn’t like it much. It’s harsh and sort of unpleasantly sour. The cigarettes muddle it a bit, but that makes it worse. Secondhand smoke makes Vincent’s head hurt. It’s Gil, though, so it’s alright.  
Little exhales tell Vincent that Gil is still awake— it’s soft, but a bit too fast, still ever slightly irregular. The sun must’ve set a while ago. Vincent doesn’t bother asking if Gil’s having a fit of insomnia. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says instead. “It’s awful without you, you know.”  
His brother doesn’t reply, not that he was expecting him to.  
“Does brother remember what a mess I used to be, when he first got adopted? Maybe it didn’t matter so much to him…”  
The body next to him shifts, Vincent’s head suddenly resting against air. Gil sighs. “I remember. I didn’t think you wanted to talk about that.”  
He doesn’t. It was humiliating. “I know it was scary— I know brother ran away, the first couple times. I’m sorry.”  
“No, I— well. You were a kid. Kids don’t always know how to react to things, so, I guess…” Gil trails off, uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what happened to Vincent then, isn’t sure how to rationalize it. Something would happen, not ever something Gil could guess— Vincent would freeze suddenly with a look of horror. What happened after wasn’t always the same. Sometimes Vincent would shout, sometimes he’d go completely silent and fall to his knees, cover his face with his hands and sob.  
Though they talk about it in the past tense, Vincent still gets those attacks sometimes. He’s just better at timing it. “There wasn’t ever anyone else who’d put up with me then. Just Gil.”  
“... I hated you when you did that. You did it in public a couple times. Do you know how embarrassing that was?”  
“I know,” Vincent sighs. “... there really isn’t anyone else to take care of me. I’d go to pieces if I were left alone.”  
Gil doesn’t pull away, so Vincent moves himself to press his cheek to his brother’s chest again. He’s warm, if nothing else. There’s a long pause before his brother speaks again. “I… worry about you. A lot. I don’t know why you’re like this. I mean— I just… You never seem happy.”  
“I’m happy with Gil,” Vincent answers. His chest hurts. Gil isn’t supposed to care. He doesn’t want Gil to care. It’s so hard to keep it up, to make Gil stop caring without making Gil hurt. If Gil worries, he’s making him hurt, again. Gil’s still worried over him. “Can I hold your hand?”  
Eventually Vincent sort of wrestles Gil’s hand into his own, since Gil never replied but didn’t stop him. It’s bigger than his own, rougher— Gil actually goes outside, unlike him, Vincent thinks half-jokingly. Vincent closes his eyes, but his thoughts still race until he realizes Gil’s breathing has slowed, evened out. His elder brother’s asleep. Vincent should try to get some rest too.

When Vincent wakes up the curtains are open, light streaming into the room. It’s winter, so it must be pretty late in the morning. Gil’s gone. He must have decided to let Vincent sleep. Vincent’s head still hurts— he hates waking up, it’s always like this. If he were in his own room, he’d probably just go back to sleep. That’s not an option like this, though. He shouldn’t infringe on his brother’s space any longer than he has to. Groggily he gets up, stumbles over to the door frame. Did he have things to do today? Their father will get on his case later, probably. Something to worry about later, when he’s not having to put his entire body into opening Gil’s bedroom door.  
It opens for him, suddenly, and Vincent nearly falls through. Thankfully Gil had positioned himself so Vincent fell onto him, to Vincent’s mild embarrassment. He looks better than yesterday, not exactly brighter but more focused. There’s no lost look about him, no atmosphere of drifting away. Vincent grins.  
“We’re going to clean your room today,” Gil says, determined. Vincent jumps back, surprised, then laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost happy?
> 
> Gil and Vincent's relationship hit really hard with me. There are a lot of reasons for that, but a big one was in how Gil dealt with Vincent's mental illness- which was, mostly, that he didn't. Gil had loved Vincent, definitely, enough that he was willing to die for him. He was not willing to take responsibility for anything Vincent did. I think it's safe to assume Gil had realized /something/ was going on with Vincent. I mean, pretty much the entire audience had realized something was going on with Vincent the moment he appeared. Gil even had personal experience dealing with other people's suicidal tendencies, since it was for a long time the basis of his relationship with Oz. Unlike Oz, however, Gil had been specifically charged with emotional responsibility for Vincent against his will. Gil didn't want to take that. His relationship with Vincent, then, is that he worries, because he loves him, but doesn't want any involvement in anything that happens to him (chapter 33) and when confronted with undeniable proof that Vincent's instability was directly related to him he instead shifts the blame to Vincent (chapter 65).  
> I want to clarify: I LIKE Gil!! A lot!!! He's in my opinion the best written male character in PH, and definitely has the strongest development. There's a reason, though, that when Gil realizes he has to choose between the people he cares about and his own ability to take things passively, he chooses the former... and immediately apologizes to Vincent (chapter 79).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent is part of something much bigger than himself. 2568 words
> 
> Is there such a thing as hurting but not feeling pain? It’s almost perfect, except for the topic of conversation.
> 
> Potential CSA warning- references to canonical CSA are made.

It’s sunny out— a pleasant day. Vincent feels like he’s on fire. The sun beats down on his neck as he stands next to Gil just outside the entrance to the tower. His chest hurts, heart pounding. Gil mutters something as Vincent leans back against the hard stone of the tower, lets it cool him as he slides down to sit on the soft grass below. This wasn’t the first time Vincent had felt like this— he remembers it, all the times he and Gil had been running from something, when Gil had gotten into the wrong fight, when another foster family turned out bad and they had to sneak their way through some labyrinthian mansion. In hopes of calming himself down, Vincent rips some grass from the dirt, throws it into the air and watches it flutter down as he pants. All the times he’d felt like this prior, there’d been some kind of chase, something that’d forced him to move faster than his little body could really handle. There was no chase today. Just Alice, and Gil.

Something evil is in Gil’s face, stark against the bright blue sky as Vincent stares up at him. A piece of grass must have gotten in his eyes— he’s tearing up as he looks at him. Gil was wearing an expression Vincent was very familiar with. Over the past couple months, it’d nearly disappeared. Vincent had messed up, though. He should’ve known better than to meet someone new while Gil was around, even if he’d thought Jack would protect them. Alice said something to make Gil mad over Vincent, again. Though Vincent had tried to convince Gil to let it go, that he really didn’t mind the things Alice had said so much, it’s alright, Gil had promised he’d kill Alice. Vincent does not want Gil to kill Alice. He doesn’t want Gil to make that expression ever again.

Grass will stain his skirt, Vincent realizes as he feels the dampness of the ground seep through to his skin— Glen will get on his case about that later. Vincent stands up, his breathing a little more regular, though his chest still hurts. “Gil— I think—”

“Don’t worry, Vince,” Gil interrupts, turning around to put his hand in Vincent’s hair, rubbing it protectively. “Big brother’s going to protect you— he’s going to protect Master Glen, too. So you don’t have to worry.”

* * *

“Why is Alice even around?” Gil had asked Glen once, holding his hand while Vincent trailed a little behind. Vincent was usually trailing a little behind, whenever he and Gil and Glen were together. The sounds of their shoes echo loudly through the halls large house, floors shining marble. Though it’s still summer, the air inside is cold. “You look so sad whenever you talk about her.”

Glen pauses, thinking. “Think of her like a sister,” he answers.

“She’s _not_ my sister though,” Gil snaps back, then regrets it. He hangs his head diminutively, knowing he made a mistake in his tone of address. Vincent resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Um, I mean— well, I’m not sure I know… how she helps the family. You said she’s not like the rest of us, right? And, well… we’re all supposed to be helping you…”

“... The thing about siblings is you don’t always like them,” Glen answers after another pause to think. “But you still need to keep them around.”

“Oh…”

“Until they’ve served their purpose,” he adds, a bit hastily. They stop walking, Glen and Gil, but Vincent takes a couple more steps forward. His footsteps ring out through the building, the high ceilings and open curtains amplifying the sound of his step out of time. Glen’s staring at him, and Gil, always following his master, is looking at him too. Maybe it’s the cold— it has to be the cold, making the hair on the back of Vincent’s neck stand on end. Gil’s happy here, isn’t he? So there should be no issue. Right. Right? He tilts his head up and looks Glen in the eye, hands fisted at his side. Later Gil gets on his case about showing proper respect.

* * *

He hates Alice. Gil won’t shut up about her. Neither will Glen. Neither will Jack. Jack is here, today— he doesn’t come every day, more like once a week, and he doesn’t see Vincent every time. Today Jack’s taken him to a rose garden, just the two of them. Though Vincent’s seen it before, it’s different with Jack. Maybe it’s just the bench. When he comes here alone, on the rare occasions he’s around to wander— and he’s always alone, the other Baskervilles avoid him— the bench is hard and difficult for him to climb up onto. Jack’s lap is warm, though, as is his right hand in Vincent’s hair as he sits next to him. Vincent’s chest is warm, too, but he doesn’t feel hot. It hurts a bit, but not like when he was running. Is there such a thing as hurting but not feeling pain? It’s almost perfect, except for the topic of conversation.

“... and anyway, I think the two of you should try to get along. You’re a lot alike.”

Vincent pretends not to hear until Jack calls his name. “Gil doesn’t like her,” he replies.

Silence falls for a moment as Jack pets his hair a bit more. Vincent sighs, closing his eyes and trying to lean closer to him. “Would you do anything Gil says?” Jack asks, tone playful.

“... Um…”

“It’s not a trick question, don’t worry. I won’t get mad no matter what you say.”

Would Vincent do anything Gil said? The obvious answer is no, since he wouldn’t. But usually when adults ask these things they mean something different. “I love Gil,” is how he answers, since he thinks it encompasses all the things he might want to say.

“I see,” Jack laughs, ruffling Vincent’s hair before moving his hand down to his shoulder. His hand is big enough to wrap all the way around Vincent’s upper arm, Vincent notes, and some old defensive instinct flares up and tells him to get away. He pushes it down as Jack continues talking. “Would you date Gil?”

“What?” Vincent’s eyes fly open, a little taken aback. He understands the question, but hadn’t ever been asked something like that before. Adults had talked to him about dating, but always assumed he wasn’t old enough to have opinions on it. “... Doesn’t there have to be a girl?”

“Then pretend you’re a sister for a moment.”

“... I’m not sure you’re supposed to do that with brothers,” he answers, confused by the line of questioning. He’d never heard of brothers and sisters dating, at least.

"You're a very smart boy Vincent, you know that?" Birds chirp merrily, filling up the quiet that follows. There are a lot of birds around the Baskerville property, a lot of animals in general. Rabbits follow him around sometimes, though he doesn’t know what to do with them. Finally Jack laughs again, as if the whole conversation had been a joke. When he stops, he continues. “What about Glen, then?” A couple seconds pass and Jack interrupts him. “Oh, don’t make that face! You’re far too cute to go looking so angry.”

“I—“ Vincent stammers, looks away from Jack. His hands clutch at the fabric of his skirt. Jack complimented him often— oh, how pretty, how cute, you have such nice eyes, Vincent— but Vincent was never quite prepared for it. “That’s…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says. His right hand rubs Vincent’s back. Then the left one comes out, taps Vincent’s nose, guiding Vincent’s eyes upwards to Jack’s face as he points at himself. “Then what about me?”

Vincent flushes, and Jack laughs again.

* * *

Usually when Vincent’s alone he goes to see Noise. Noise isn’t always there, though— she’s told him more than once that if it were her choice she’d see him whenever he wanted, but there are other Baskervilles who make her go out sometimes, though she wouldn’t say why. When Noise isn’t there Vincent gets a little pissy, because he had been _planning_ to see her and then she was _gone_. So instead he goes to see Alice.

Alice’s tower is scary— Vincent had seen higher buildings before, out in Sablier proper, but for some reason hers seemed bigger than the rest of them. It might’ve been the solitude. In Sablier, all the buildings are close together, hugging each other to accommodate more people. It was a long run from Alice’s tower to the next nearest building on the Baskerville property. The stonework of its sides seemed intimidating, somehow, as if the cobbles held something inside them. Though the construction of the tower might lead adults to worry it would fall, Vincent was afraid it would burst.

He doesn’t know what he wants from Alice, even as he runs up the stairs to see her. Somehow seeing her seemed the natural solution to Noise’s absence. What did they have in common? They were both girls, for one. He can tell that as he opens the heavy door to Alice’s room, immediately greeted by the smell of sugar-scented candles. Alice is in her white dress, much frillier than Vincent’s, playing with a doll. She plays the role of a girl much better than Vincent does. Obviously.

She looks up from her playing, elated— then her expression darkens. “What is it?” she hisses.

This was a bad idea. “You— I—” he starts, uncertain as Alice stands up. She’s taller than he is— hadn’t they been the same height a few weeks ago?

“You’re not allowed in here,” she snarls, walking towards him. Her voice is as gravelly as a girl her age can manage, eyes narrow and lips curled into a scowl. Suddenly it softens, the malice leaving her expression. “... but that’s strange, isn’t it?”

Vincent suspects he should run out, not let her get closer to him. Yet he stays where he is, even as she gets within two feet of him. “I don’t get it,” he replies, trying to sound intimidating.

“I mean,” she mumbles, running a meek hand through her hair. “Isn’t this place for _your kind_ anyway?”

“If you’re—”

He’s unable to finish his sentence as Alice suddenly grabs his arms, yanks him to the side to knock him over. The floor is carpeted, to Vincent’s relief, but Alice is sitting on top of him and she’s too heavy for him to throw off. She laughs. “I know _all_ about it. Glen’s going to do all sorts of awful things to you!”

 _I don’t care_ , Vincent thinks to spit back, but she presses his head down into the carpet with her hands. “You know what Glen did to the last one to be like you— I don’t think you do!” she says, as if it were an actual conversation. “When she was a little older than you, they started putting all these awful things in her. Glen did, I mean, put all these awful things inside her from when she was a little girl. She went crazy, before Glen killed her. He made five birds tear her apart while she was alive, and that made all the stuff he’d put inside her come out—”

Her finger slips down to the corner of Vincent’s mouth, so he takes the opportunity to jerk his head right, bite her hand until she bleeds and he hears her shrieking and recoiling to the other side of the room. Glen and Gil come soon after, probably already looking for Vincent and alerted by Alice’s shouts. Vincent too stunned to make an immediate escape. He’d never bitten someone before— first blood! cries Gil, who had. His attempt at a joke, before he’s shot down with a disapproving look from Glen as he wraps a bandage around her injured fingers. The blood is unpleasant and salty on Vincent’s tongue. He looks at Gil, who is hiding his mouth behind his hands to cover an amused smile. Vincent laughs, smirking for the both of them.

* * *

Five days pass before Vincent’s allowed to leave his room again— punishment for biting Alice, he’s told, though Gil only got time out for an hour when he had torn some of her hair out. He’s still allowed to see Gil, of course, who tells him that’s just the way things are and he should accept them. That was on the second day, which led to an argument, since Vincent was in an unusually bad mood and told Gil he was being stupid. Gil stopped coming to see him after that. Vincent misses him.

A knock on Vincent’s door lets him know his punishment is over— the acoustics aren’t right for it to be Gil, though, his older brother doesn’t knock like that. He expects it to be some unlucky Baskerville servant, but the slow open of the door does not reveal any crimson cloak. Instead it’s Jack, who Vincent hadn’t been expecting a visit from— he gasps, runs over to him, is caught in Jack’s arms and picked up and held to his chest. Jack always smells nice, Vincent thinks, not like the incense scattered around the manor nor the roses from outside. Something different.

They talk, mostly Jack telling him about his life— about the world outside the Baskerville manor, which Vincent hadn’t seen since he and Gil had arrived. Whenever they have these talks Jack promises to take him out someday, maybe have Vincent live with him, and he’d take Vincent wherever he wanted and Vincent wouldn’t have to worry about his eye anymore. Vincent looks forward to it more than anything, thinks about it on the days when he’s told to stay alone in his room for hours on end because Glen and Gil are doing something and Vincent isn’t allowed.

Jack leads him outside, continuing the conversation. When they’re further into the property and there’s no one else around, Jack starts singing. Vincent joins in, though he doesn’t have much interest in singing himself. It’s a song Jack sings around him often when they’re alone. The lyrics are sad, Vincent thinks, though he doesn’t really understand them. Yet Jack always looks happy when he sings it, and especially when Vincent sings along, so he must be misunderstanding things.

“Why did you bite Alice?” Jack asks once the song is over.

Oh, this again. Vincent huffs. “Why shouldn’t I have? She started it.”

“Did she make fun of your eyes again?”

Instinctively Vincent’s hands go to his hair, trying to pull his bangs over his right eye. They’re not long enough to do that anymore— because Jack cut them, right, Jack who is now getting on his knees to brush Vincent’s hands away from his face. Jack puts his thumb beneath Vincent’s right eye, strokes his cheek and smiles fondly. “She’s had a hard life, poor girl.”

Vincent grumbles.

“Don’t be like that! She’s just jealous of you, that’s all. You remind Alice a lot of herself.”

“Who cares?”

“I mean,” Jack chuckles. “That’s why you went to see her that last time, right? You wanted to go yell at the person who made your elder brother hurt. Or is that a little hard for someone your age to understand?”

“I— I understand!” Vincent retorts.

“Right,” Jack says, and ruffles Vincent’s hair again. “In any case, you shouldn’t feel too bad. You both remind me a lot of someone else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this was not the biggest thing I could do, but it's still sort of a big deal to me. If you're not interested in hearing my specific interpretation on PH/why exactly I wrote this, feel free to skip. If you are interested, though, here's a bit of a condensed version specifically as it surrounds Vincent's character.
> 
> In short, Gil and Vincent are a continuation of the structure demonstrated to us by Oswald and Lacie, as pointed out by Jack in chapter 73 and explained in chapter 91. Since presumably the beginning of time within PH's universe, sibling pairs have been born with the explicit intent that the elder would maintain the status quo as determined by the Jury, while the younger resists it- until the elder kills the younger, before inheriting Glen's name and raising the pair that would follow them. That's a very simple summary, but I hope it's adequate.  
> I honestly didn't like Vincent much for the first year or so after I read PH- in fact, I hated him. It wasn't until I reread and noticed his actual behavior was inconsistent with the impression of him I had gotten the first time I had read that I started to empathize with him. What really influenced my fondness for him though was realizing the significance of his connection with Lacie, and how his arc is a direct continuation of hers.
> 
> Since I don't want to make this note too long, I'll stop there, though I really have a lot to say on the matter. I hope this statement gives you a better appreciation for PH as a whole, or at least a new perspective. It's a series I'm deeply, deeply fond of, and Vincent/Gil's relationship as a continuation of Lacie's arc is a big reason why.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent believes in symbols. 1285 words.
> 
> It was a beneficial eccentricity, too. Everyone hated it when he tore apart those dolls.
> 
> Paragraph which references blood drinking, vomiting, and self harm (though these are just referenced, as opposed to described.)

Nightray liked crosses. It was one of the first things Vincent noticed, when he finally had the will to take in the world after Sablier. Eventually he’d learn it was their crest, but as a child that small he didn’t immediately make the connection. To him it just seemed like an odd sort of fetish, a recurring symbol serving as some sort of ominous reminder. He’d only seen crosses on graves before, so to see them fill a home was disconcerting.

For the first few weeks after his adoption Vincent had been inconsolable. He couldn’t remember exactly what had been going through his head, just the flashes of hot and cold and the dizziness which kept him locked alone in a room again, though with Nightray he’d be periodically visited by nurses. They all wore crosses too, all the nurses in their pretty white dresses. Whenever they got close to him he’d lash out, push them away, and his memory starts fading into color from that point on. Vague impressions of white becoming red, which, if Vincent remembered correctly, would just make him more angry.

Alice had worn white. As had Vincent, he remembered, sort of. She had worn white, and she was very pretty, with all her frills and ties and adornments which made her a girl, which Vincent did not have. Both of them had messed it up, though— there was red on both of them, on Vincent’s hands and all over Alice’s chest. That he remembers clearly, the matte of red-dyed fabric subtly contrasting the glistening pool beneath her. There was a spot on the left side that was so dark it seemed to glow, and he recalled its surface writhing like maggots as it grew. When he asked if she was alright she didn’t answer, didn’t even twitch a finger— her fingers were red, too, from when they’d been close to her chest. The scissors she held seemed mostly golden, though.

He’d called out to Jack, who had ignored him. The man fled the tower and Vincent fell to his knees. Dolls were littered across the floor, many of them damaged— and as Vincent stared at them and they stared back he wanted to cover his face and beg their forgiveness. Forgiveness wouldn’t bring them back, though, their empty eyes dull and hateful no matter how many times he had said he was sorry. All he could do was feel for them, feel as though it were his neck torn open and his guts spread about. He had done that to them, those dolls which had been broken on his way to Alice. So he should feel their pain.

By the time Gil was adopted, Vincent had reached the conclusion he’d gone insane. No, he hadn’t, that couldn’t be it— he was fine, he knew, because he saw a clear course of action from where he was to where he was going. He knew why he was going there too, and why it was best for everyone. What happened at Sablier wasn’t his fault, it couldn’t have been. You couldn’t blame a child for that, not when the adults had told him to do it. Vincent wasn’t insane, he reassured himself, just eccentric. It was a beneficial eccentricity, too. Everyone hated it when he tore apart those dolls.

They were in the same bed again. Gil would be sleeping with him until Gil was formally presented to the public, when he’d get his own room. Every night when they went to bed Vincent would stare as his elder brother closed his eyes, went to sleep. He had spent so long dreaming about him he couldn’t be sure he was real. If Gil weren’t real there wouldn’t be this much detail, he concluded— he wouldn’t be able to count his eyelashes, see the lines on his lower lip, make out how his neck tensed occasionally as he slept. Vincent had gently grabbed his brother’s hand, put his fingers against his brother’s wrist so he could feel his pulse. Gil always hated that.

Gold had become a favorite color of Vincent’s. His brother’s eyes were gold, as was Jack’s hair, as were the scissors Alice had killed herself with. When Vincent and Gil were little they’d talk about the golden lights, but Gil doesn’t seem interested in them in adulthood. That’s a bit of a pity, since the golden lights always seemed to say much nicer things to Gil than they had to Vincent. He remembered, if vaguely, those few days after they’d first seen them. Gil said everything made sense suddenly, that they had to go to Sablier, even if Vincent had cried and told him he was scared. The golden lights were kind, Vincent believed, but they must have been afraid because they kept telling him that there was death in Sablier and that wings would descend upon him to destroy his body and drop his soul into Abyss, and the golden lights would cry out for him but wouldn’t be able to do anything more when that happened. He rarely heard them anymore and almost never saw them, but Gil had always been a bit more in tune to what they said. Vincent suspected that if Gil no longer saw them, it was because he had convinced himself he did not want to.

Blood filled Vincent’s mouth, hot and bitter and salty. He pushed down the part of him that wanted to spit it out as he held Gil’s wound to his lips— as Gil held his own wound to Vincent’s lips, Vincent decided. It hurt to swallow, even though there wasn’t that much, but Gil’s flesh was still open and bleeding and Vincent needed to attend to it. Gil had become much stronger than him in the past few years, his elder brother doing his best to be recognized as a proper man while Vincent had let his body waste away. A hand twisted in Vincent’s hair, the right one, causing Vincent to grip his brother’s left hand tighter as he sucked at his wound. His stomach hurt, but he wanted to keep going. Even if he got sick from it, he wanted to have some part of Gil inside him. Bile rises in his throat. Everything aches. It’s coming out— he can’t take it, he can’t, it hurts and he’s sorry this is all he can do even as he removes his own arm from his mouth to vomit into his lap. Vincent had cut himself. Accidentally.

There’s a cross on some old Baskerville property, the marker for a grave. No body is kept there— it’s just a symbol, the person it honors having turned to dust before any efforts could be made to preserve her corpse. The Core of Abyss had told Vincent where it was, who it was for. It was just as Gil had described it to him, though his elder brother hadn’t actually visited in several decades. Vincent had been a little scared to visit it, for some reason, thinking there might’ve been some old grudge hanging around it. The place would have every right to be haunted, given his understanding of what happened to the woman it signifies.

Now that he’s here, though, he can tell his fears weren’t warranted. No resentment is bound to this place, there never has been any. He walks up to the marker, puts an ungloved right hand on it. The flowers here bloom just as they had more than a century ago, though no one’s been around to take care of them. Something has to be maintaining them, there has to be some reason why this place never changed.  _ Oh, _ Vincent realizes.  _ She must still be alive. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crosses... white dresses stained red... scissors... dolls... red eyes...


End file.
